Itsme's Bag of Holding
by Itsme66
Summary: Ditties, half-baked stories and questionable ideas. Unbeta'd and devoid of polish.
1. Welcome

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his whole universe belongs to J. K. Rowling and her associates. I'm just having a good time playing with it all, and I - unlike the owner - don't make a penny from it.

**Itsme's Bag of Holding**

Hi, and welcome to my bag of holding. This is the place where I'll put ditties, half-baked stories and ideas for later use. The rating is 'M' because sooner or later something worthy of that tag will find its way here, and I'd rather be on top of it than I'll upload something naughty and then forget to change the rating.

Happy reading – or not as tastes and (lack of) quality decides.

/Itsme


	2. I Quit

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his whole universe belongs to J. K. Rowling and her associates. I'm just having a good time playing with it all, and I - unlike the owner - don't make a penny from it.

A/N: This has two possibilities. It could either be ch. 1 of yet another 'Harry says no' fic where more is implied than is explained, at least if I ever get around to write the second half, or it could be ch. 3 of something similar but fleshed out in much more detail with ch. 1 being the summer after 3rd year and meeting up with Sirius, and ch. 2 being the first third of 4th year. I've transferred a lot of the ideas I had for this to 'Enough is enough', so it may never be any more than it is now. It still has some sentimental value to me though, being the first fic I ever began to write. Tentative title:

**I quit!**

* * *

><p>"<em>Potter, the champions and their partners –"<em>

"_What partners?" said Harry._

Professor McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as though she thought he was trying to be funny.

"_Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter," she said coldly. "Your ___**dance partners**___."_

Harry's insides seemed to curl up and shrivel. "Dance partners?" He felt himself going red. "I don't dance," he said quickly.

"_Oh, yes, you do," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "That's what I'm telling you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball."_

…

"_I'm not dancing," he said._

"_It is traditional," said Professor McGonagall firmly. "You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school. So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter."_

"_But – I don't –"_

"_You heard me, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, in a very final sort of way._

_(Quoted from 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire')_

Suddenly four months' worth of conversations with Sirius crystallized into one single thought in the forefront on Harry's mind: 'Now's the time to put your foot down old bean. Grow a spine – or at least look like you've acquired one!'

"I'm sorry Professor but I don't dance, and I don't intend to change that for the sake of the traditions of a tournament I'm not supposed to be in," he said in an equally final tone.

Minerva McGonagall was absolutely gobsmacked! A student was talking back to her, and not just any student... One of her favourites, the son of her all-time favourite couple, and normally – despite possessing an abundance of Gryffindor courage – a suitably pliant boy. What had gotten into him? This couldn't stand!

"Mr. Potter! You and your partner will most definitely open the Ball as I tell you! No more of this nonsense, or I will be forced to deduct 50 points from Gryffindor." The order was not to be mistaken this time.

"If you say so, Professor," Harry answered. "I've been slandered and vilified by around 95% of the students here this year. Losing 50 points for Gryffindor will at least only make 25% of the student body hate me this time, quite an improvement I'd say. I am not opening any ball; I am not going to have a dance partner; and - come to think of it – I'm not even going to be at the effing Ball," he said in an even tone. "In fact I'm still not sure if I'll be at Hogwarts over Christmas at all." Harry decided to press it: "Will that be all, Professor? I'd hate to lose Gryffindor additional points by being late for Herbology."

"50 points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter, and detention tonight with Mr. Filch!" McGonagall snapped. This was unheard of! The sooner the Headmaster heard about this, the better.

"I'll acknowledge the points Professor, but I don't think you can justify detention for refusing to participate in an extra-curricular activity. ...And now I'm running late for Herbology."

Inwardly Harry trembled. He was sure he'd be in serious trouble with Dumbledore later, and McGonagall was turning an interesting – if somewhat scary – colour already. He definitely had to get Sirius on the mirror before Dumbledore called him to his office, and he had to have a chat with Susan Bones before dinner.

"Dismissed, Mr. Potter. But don't think we won't have words about this later!" McGonagall said in a voice trembling with barely suppressed anger.

...

Outside the classroom, Hermione and Neville were waiting for him, and Ron lurked a few steps away, still trying to latch on.

"What did McGonagall want?" Neville asked.

"Nothing terribly important," Harry answered evenly. "She droned a bit about me having to get a dance partner, since the champions are apparently required to open the Ball. I told her I'm not going to attend the bloody Ball, and it kinda escalated a bit from there. I lost 50 points in the end because she got mad..."

"What?" Hermione shrieked. "50 points! Are you out of your mind? You'll lose us the House Cup, Harry!"

"Gee thanks Hermione. I'm deeply touched by your concern," Harry mocked. "I honestly can't bring myself to care much for the Cup right now. I've got bigger problems than that."

"But..."

"No, Hermione. I don't give a rat's arse about it. All I care about is staying alive and somewhat healthy, and a ball isn't going to help me with that."

"All of Gryffindor will hate you, you know," Neville said.

"Yeah, I know," Harry admitted. "Kind of a nice change actually... Usually it's the whole school."

"I can't believe you, Harry," Hermione stated. "How can you be so cool about it? The Cup is important, you know."

Harry sighed. "To you, maybe. My priorities are a bit different though. I value my life and health a bit higher than an insignificant trophy, and I'm used to people hating or vilifying me, so it won't be that much different to the usual."

Hermione ploughed on: "You know, it could cost you the prefect's badge next year."

"So what?" he snapped. Hermione flinched.

Harry was losing his patience now. "It's not like I want it anyway. I don't see what the big deal is. You're supposed to be happy about being given extra duties. They cut into your time for study and homework because you have to do rounds and be available to help the younger years, and you're still expected to get top marks. Not very reasonable, is it now?" Harry was building up a good bit of steam. "Regardless of that, I wasn't going to be a prefect next year anyway, Yule Ball of not, so this won't change a thing in that regard. Leave the badges for those who want them, then those of us with any measure of common sense can get on with our lives with minimum fuss," he said in a mocking tone. "That is of course if we don't get killed before we get that far. At least for me that's a perfectly viable option you know, thanks to the incompetence of the senile old goat who was supposed to provide protection to people like us, so none of us could get ourselves elected by that bloody goblet!" The last remark was delivered with a serious dose of venom in his voice. Hermione looked horrified.

"Harry! How can you say that about the Headmaster? He's the greatest wizard alive, and he certainly is looking out for our best interests! You can't mean what you just said!"

"Hermione, I know that's what most people believe – and it's what he wants us all to think – but I really thought you had more brains than that." Harry was getting fed up with this now. "Whose best interests he's looking out for I don't know, but I'm sure it's not mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I've lost the desire to learn about Stinging Tulips today. I'll go work on cracking the Egg. After all the Tulips can only hurt me – anything concerning the Egg could probably get me killed."

With that, Harry turned around and headed towards Gryffindor Tower.

"I can't believe that arrogant git!" Ron exclaimed from behind the gaping pair. "Who does he think he is?"

"Well, he does have a lot of pressure on him these days," Neville mused, "but this is not like him at all. It's like his whole personality has changed lately."

"Whatever," Ron said dismissively. "I'm not going to stand for him acting like that. Like he's more important than Gryffindor. Prat!"

Hermione was torn. On one side, she really wanted to defend her friend, and she could definitely sympathize with him, someone out to kill him and all. On the other side she understood Ron somewhat, and she could definitely not agree with the way Harry had spoken about her great idol, and she was horrified with his attitude towards the honour of being a prefect. With a sigh she decided to let it all slip for now, and followed the boys down to the greenhouses.

* * *

><p>Harry watched them walk away. 'That went well,' he thought. '3 down and a couple of hundred to go.' He turned around and disappeared into an abandoned classroom.<p>

After locking and silencing the door, Harry pulled his mirror out of his pocket and tapped it's upper left corner with his wand. "Padfoot," he called, "pull your finger out and answer, you mangy old mutt!" Harry tapped his fingers impatiently on the tabletop for a minute or two. "Come on now, Padfoot, or I swear you'll get a flea-bath and a neutering for Christmas!"

"Oi Bambi! No need to give Father Christmas any nasty ideas," Sirius chuckled in the mirror. "What's the hurry Pup?"

"The shit is hitting the fan here Padfoot," Harry answered with a grimace. "I kinda lost it 20 minutes ago – answering back to McGonagall of all people! I'm sorry, but it can't be undone now," he said, having the decency to at least look bashful.

Sirius was not amused. "You really know how to pick them, don't you Kiddo? That was just about the worst professor you could choose. What happened?"

"She announced a Yule Ball and then held me back after class, droning on about me having to have a partner as I'm apparently required to open the dance since I'm a champion. I told her that I'm not going to have a partner; that I'm not going to open the effing dance; and that I don't intend to be at the bloody Ball at all." Sirius did a fair imitation of a goldfish.

"Damn Kiddo! I'd have given a decent pile of gold to have seen – and heard - that!" he let out a trademark bark. "And you're sure you're both still alive?"

"Evidently I'm still around," Harry said wryly. "As for my esteemed Head of House, I'm not quite sure. When I left her, she was turning a rather unhealthy shade of purple – but then again, since she managed to survive you and Dad, I'm sure she'll survive this too. I'm more concerned about what happens once Fumblemore stops choking on his revolting sweets. He's going to try to rip me a new one, that's for sure, and I don't know if I'm far enough with my shield yet to stop him from snooping around in my head."

"When you screw up, you really do it royally it seems," Sirius chuckled. "Take it easy Bambi. I got the last parchments today, and you should get the extra mirror tonight along with my memory, so I'll be ready as soon as you get a hold of the Bones girl. By the way, why don't you want to go to the ball? You've made it sound like she's a nice girl, so it could be an excuse to get to know her better. I'm fairly certain that one of the offers is from her family. I seem to recall James chuckling for hours about receiving an offer from Emery Bones when you were 5-6 days old," he smirked.

"The ball is on Christmas Night, and I'd rather be at your place that day," Harry said, flushing at the comment about Susan. "As for Susan, I'll get hold of her before dinner. Whether there's an offer from her family or not, I'd prefer to have things a bit more securely in hand – not to mention more firm knowledge - before making any moves. You know, apparently I'm so clueless about the whole girl/boy thing, there are rumours that I seek for the other team now." Harry let out a wry laugh. "I guess I should do something to prove them wrong, but I just can't make myself care enough. And before you ask: Yes, even though I'm still a virgin I'm certain I prefer girls thank you very much!" Harry shot a menacing look. "Susan is a nice girl, and really pretty too, but that doesn't mean we'd be good together, now does it? She'd be one of the two top choices on my shortlist if I was in the market, but until the relevant documents are filed and sealed, not to mention we've been through what's in the vault, it'll all be speculation, and I don't have time for that right now. Besides – I can't be seen being too chummy with anyone for the next couple of months if 'what I'll sorely miss' is what I think it is."

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked with a frown.

"Oh yeah, I haven't told you yet. I've solved the Egg – or more precisely, Dobby overheard some of the Professors talking about it and then told me what to do," Harry smiled widely. "Something I'll sorely miss will be taken from me and given to the Merpeople, and then I'll have an hour to get it back. If my hunch is correct that would mean either Hermione as my best friend or any girlfriend I might have at the time of the task. I've already done a bit to chase Hermione off, but I might have to put a bit more effort in."

"Whoa Pup. Slow down here!" Sirius looked quite confused. "Why would this keep you from dating?; why are you chasing Hermione off?; and who is Dobby?"

"Right, I'll try to be slow enough for even you to understand it," Harry teased. "Dobby is the Elf I tricked Lucius Malfoy into freeing a couple of years ago. He's a complete nutcase, but he's 100% loyal to me for some reason. I'm chasing Hermione off for the same reason I can't date now: I don't intend to complete the task, and since I don't trust Fumblemore to keep anybody safe in a holding cell, much less at the bottom of the Black Lake, I'm trying to reduce the number of potential victims to zero. After all that senile old bastard couldn't even keep whoever it was from confounding the goblet and dropping my name in it. Dammit how I hate that man!" Harry scowled.

"O...kay" Sirius scratched his neck. "I can almost follow your logic. Almost... But you realize of course that if it's required for the task, they'll have to put someone down there, right?"

"Yeah... Bloody wankers!" Harry fumed. "I suppose they could stuff my Firebolt down there, but I plan on dropping it off at your place when I get there. Other than that I suppose it has to be a person, but I'd rather it's not someone I actually like. Ron Weasley would be a great choice, stupid howlermonkey!"

"What?" Sirius almost shouted. "What's going on up there Pup? What's wrong with him now?"

"I told you about the tantrum he threw, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he kept it going until just after the first task, then he came around and offered the most insincere apology I've ever heard. I'd talked to Neville about him a few times before that, and we agreed that he's only hanging around me for my name, so I kinda smacked him right down with a rolled up paper like you'd do a puppy. Since then it's mostly been Hermione, Neville and me, but he keeps stalking us, trying to look like he's still 'in with The-Boy-Who-Lived' or some crap like that. Really pathetic, but it's apparently all the ambition he can drum up." Harry made a disgusted face. "His grades are dropping in every subject too, even when Hermione still offers to help him out. It seems he's spending all his free time gawking at the Beauxbatons champion; playing chess; dreaming about Quidditch, or stalking me."

Sirius looked gobsmacked. "Erm.. We're talking about the same Ron Weasley who tried to stand up for you on a broken leg in the Shrieking Shack this spring, right?"

"Yeah. I know it sounds weird, but it's the same guy alright." Harry paused to collect his thoughts.

"I've talked to Hermione and Neville about what his problem might be, and we think we might've cracked it. He's the youngest of 6 brothers, and there's a sister a year younger than him. All the boys are successful in their own rights: Bill was Head Boy and now he's a Cursebreaker for Gringott's; Charlie was a top notch Seeker and Team Captain, turned down a pro-contract and now he's a Dragon Handler; Percy was Head Boy last year and now he's working directly under Barty Crouch in the Ministry; Gred and Forge have set themselves a goal to outprank you and Dad. They give the impression that they're just here to pass time, but the charms and potions for their pranks are 'O'-quality work, and they've actually begun selling their stuff now. They want to open a joke shop when they graduate. And then there's Ginny.." Harry paused for a breath. "She's been coddled a bit as both the youngest and the only girl – at least that's how Ron sees it. She's one of the most powerful witches in the school, and she's devious and ambitious enough that she could – and probably should - have been in Slytherin." Harry stopped again for another breather.

"We think he sees himself disappearing in that bunch. The irony is, he probably has the highest potential of the lot – besides Ginny maybe – but he just can't see it and he definitely won't work for it. He's been heard quite a few times bitching and moaning about how I just get everything and he gets nothing. Basically he's just expecting a fully developed life of success to drop into his lap, and until that happens he at least wants whatever discounts and female attention he can get from being close to me," Harry scowled.

"That sounds like a real friend," Sirius said with a frown, "or more correctly, that sounds disturbingly like the Rat, except for the siblings and the potential part," Sirius wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Now tell me about this Neville figure who seems to have taken Ron's spot."

"Right... He's a Gryffindor in my year, born the day before me..."

"Hold on!" Sirius broke in. "That wouldn't be Neville Longbottom, would it?"

"How do you know Neville?" Harry asked.

"He was born in the room next to yours at St. Mungo's, Pup. His mother, Alice, is your Godmother."

"What? Why haven't anybody told me this? What happened to Neville's parents in the first place? I know he lives with his Gran and she's a bit harsh with him. She's given him his Dad's wand, and it doesn't fit him at all. The other Houses call him 'the Squib Wonder of Gryffindor', but I'm dead sure he's one of the most powerful students in school. That wand could just as well be a stick." Harry was not amused!

"I have no idea why nobody told you, Pup. I haven't said anything because I thought you knew," Sirius said soothingly. "I guess Albus would be the one to ask that question – along with a long list of others.  
>I know what happened to Neville's parents though, even if I was already in Azkaban at the time. Alice and Frank were aurors, and bloody good ones too. My cousin – Narcissa Malfoy's sister – Bellatrix, her husband Rudolphus Lestrange and his brother Rabastan, along with Barty Crouch Jr., tortured them into insanity a few days after I was thrown in the Hole, apparently because they had heard a rumour that the Longbottoms knew Voldie's whereabouts. My cousin was insane already then, and the Lestrange brothers were no better. Somehow they left Neville alone, but I don't know anything about what happened after that, other that they were caught a few days later and Barty Crouch Sr. slapped a life sentence on all 4 of them. They're all in the same area I was in, or at least 3 of them are. Barty Jr. died a few years ago." Sirius looked haunted. Azkaban was still too close for comfort.<p>

"I'm sorry to hear that old Augusta has forced Frank's wand on the lad. It'll seriously hamper him later on, if he doesn't get one that matches him. We'll have to come up with something after I've had my chat with Amelia Bones."

"Right," Harry said. "First things first. As soon as I get the mirror and the memory, I'll get a hold of Susan. I'll let her see me store my own memory and swear on my magic that there's nothing harmful in yours. Then I'll ask her – on my knees if I need to – to send the lot to her Aunt and to vouch for it." Harry paused... "Come to think of it, better send the stuff to Susan and make sure it's here no earlier than dinnertime. I'll need to warn her that it's coming before it gets here."

"Why that way, Pup?"

"I'm not entirely sure that my mail isn't being screened, and I'd rather not let Fumblemore get his hands on it," Harry scowled.

"OK, I can do it that way. Don't forget that Amelia is supposed to watch the memories first before she calls me on the mirror, Pup."

"Sure thing, Padfoot. She'd probably have kittens if she did it the other way round, getting you on the mirror without warning. I mean it's bad enough even when I know it's you," Harry chuckled. "By the way, what's the callphrase for the mirror? I may have to demonstrate that it's not a portkey or something."

"Good thinking, Pup," Sirius praised. "Erhm... It's 'Ohmybones'" he added with a flush.

"What!" Harry laughed. "Where in the world did you get that from?"

Sirius groaned. "It was her nickname in the Auror force 15 years ago. She doubled as a PT-instructor, and she was as tough as they come. Everybody hurt all over after a lesson with her."

"And you're suggesting I get her for an Aunt-in-law? You're bloody mental!" Harry grinned. "We'd better break off now, Padfoot. I've been skiving off Herbology, and I strongly suspect Fumblemore will call me up for a chewing out soon," Harry pantomimed gagging.

"Right, we'd better then. Have fun," Sirius smirked. "Close mirror."

* * *

><p>"Mr. Potter!"<p>

Harry groaned as he looked up to see him lean over the railing, 2 floors up.

"Can I have a moment of your time please?"

"Of course Headmaster," Harry answered courteously – but rather tersely. "Does it have to be right now, or can it wait 'til after dinner? I'm quite hungry right now. I've been working on the Egg for hours today."

"Yes I heard about that. Skiving off classes in order to do so too," the Headmaster said in his sternest voice.

"So?" Harry shot back. "You broke a good number of laws and regulations to keep me in this farce of a Tournament. I think it's only fair that I break a few to try and stay alive through it." "...Sir." The last word was added as an afterthought, making it painfully clear that Harry meant absolutely no respect by it. Quite a few of the onlookers looked alarmed at each other, and several gasps were heard. This was a serious accusation, and it was baffling to hear the Boy-Who-Lived address the most revered wizard alive in such a manner. They could almost hear the scorn drip onto the floor.

The Headmaster took a step back as if struck, shocked by the obvious anger - almost hatred - in Harry's statement. It was painfully obvious that the boy had neither forgiven nor forgotten his minor bending of the rules – a bending that was most definitely not meant to be public knowledge! Didn't he understand that it was for the best that he was gifted with this opportunity to test and improve himself? Didn't he realise that it was his duty and his destiny to become the best he could, within the limits he, Albus Dumbledore, set for him?

"After dinner will do, Mr. Potter."

"After dinner then, Headmaster," Harry said curtly. "I'll need a password, though."

"I will send you a note at dinner, Mr. Potter."

"As you please, Headmaster. Just have an Elf give it to me."

"Why would I need to do that, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asked, puzzled. "I assure you, I am perfectly capable of banishing a note to your place at the table."

"Because I'll only be in the Great Hall until the mail has arrived, Headmaster. After that I'll go eat in the kitchens. That way my fellow students can feel more comfortable using the privileges they've been granted."

"What privileges are you talking about, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore frowned. "I can't think of anything that would require anybody to leave the Great Hall."

Harry snorted. "The right to insult, slander and ridicule me without any repercussions, Headmaster. When I'm not there, my fellow students should be able to maximize their enjoyment from it since they'll have no reason to keep their voices down... Not that they do so when I'm present, come to think of it, but some of them tend to look a bit awkward when I'm in the room," Harry elaborated. "Would that be all Headmaster?"

Taken aback once more, the Headmaster could only tell Harry to carry on his business.

Something was wrong with this! He didn't expect Harry to understand that he allowed him to be persecuted in order to harden him - to mould him into the leader, he had to be – as well as to keep him humble and sufficiently off balance to make him susceptible to his – Dumbledore's – ideas and suggestions, but he didn't expect this... hostility either. Things were getting out of hand. Harry had changed much more – and much differently – the last couple of months than expected. He was pushing away his friends; he seemed to disappear from the castle from time to time; and he seemed much too self-assured and self-sufficient for Albus' liking, but he couldn't put a finger on what had caused the changes, except for the unfortunate episode when Harry had learned that he could actually have been withdrawn from the tournament.

With a sigh the Headmaster retired to his office to ponder the situation until it was time to send a note to Harry.

* * *

><p>With the dismissal, Harry continued on his way to the Great Hall. When entering, he quickly scanned the room, spotting the pretty blonde at the Hufflepuff table (OK, there were several pretty blondes at that table, but he was looking for a particular one), and quickly made his way to her.<p>

"I come in peace, Miss Bones," he said in a grave voice, holding both his hands up, palms open. His cheeky grin belied the seriousness though. "Can I have a quick word, please?"

"Erm, yeah, sure... What about?" Susan looked a little taken aback. She'd never spoken much to Harry outside of class before, and with the general animosity towards him from Hufflepuff House these days, this was quite unexpected.

"Well... You'll receive a small package in the mail this evening with your address in a handwriting you won't recognize. It's really for me, and it will do you no harm." Harry did his best to look honest and innocent. "It's being sent to you because my mail is getting searched, and because ultimately I have to talk to you about what's in it anyway. Once I've added something to it, it's supposed to go to your aunt, and I was hoping you'd help me with it." By now the 'honest and innocent' face had become a full blown puppy-dog look. "Believe me, your aunt will be delighted to get what I'll send her!"

"Oh..." "Right..." Susan looked flustered. "I thought you were going to ask me to the Ball," she blurted, then blushed fiercely. "I mean..."

"The idea definitely has merit," Harry smiled. "Or it would have if I was going, but I'm not."

"B-But... Y-You have to, Harry! You're a Champion..."

"No I'm not! I didn't put my name in, and I never wanted anything to do with this bloody farce in the first place."

"Right.. Sorry," Susan looked equally shocked and contrite. "I'd like to know a bit more about this cloak-and-dagger thing you're trying to get me into, before I say yes or no."

"Can you cast a privacy bubble?"

"Yeah," Susan traced a pattern with her wand.

"Well, you see, it's like this..."

...

After Harry's hurried explanations, Susan was wide-eyed and almost speechless.

"Y-Yes, I'll meet you on the 7th floor when you're done chewing out the Headmaster," she agreed. "Auntie is going to blow a gasket when she learns about this!"

"That would be tomorrow if everything plays out. I just hope she won't suffer anything permanent. Sirius is going to need to see her within a week or two," Harry grinned. "If anybody asks, I was asking to borrow your notes and the assignment from Herbology – which I actually would love to borrow if you could take enough pity in me. See ya." With a quick wave he left for the Gryffindor table, to wait for Susan's mail to arrive.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore was doing what he'd been doing a lot lately. He was examining the problem 'Harry Potter' from every conceivable angle – or at least from every angle, he was able to conceive – and he couldn't see where things had begun to go this wrong. Sure, the 'incident' when Harry had found out that he could've been removed from the tournament had been unfortunate, but after he'd melted all his tracking devices, he surely couldn't hold on to that much anger for so long, could he?<p>

No, it had to be something else. If he didn't know better, he'd almost think that young Harry had found out about his parents' will, but since it was sealed up in the Ministry, that wasn't possible.

Perhaps Black had set ideas in his head? No, he was still somewhere in the tropics, and the two letters he'd sent were both harmless enough. Then why was young Mr. Potter still angry, brooding and disrespectful? Not to mention that he'd rejected young Mr. Weasley's apology and friendship, and seemed to distance himself from Miss Granger and his more casual friends too.

No, Albus Dumbledore was at a loss, and he didn't like that at all.

Suddenly he straightened, took on a grandfatherly expression, reached for a lemon drop and said:

"Enter Mr. Potter."

"Headmaster," Harry said by way of greeting.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter. Sit down please. Lemon drop?"

"I'll stand Headmaster, and no thanks," Harry's voice and face were tightly controlled and emotionless, and his eyes didn't meet the Headmaster's.

As it was almost becoming a habit, the Headmaster reared back slightly, once more taken aback by the poorly repressed hostility emanating from Harry.

"Can we get to why I'm here, please? I've got things to do, and this is keeping me from them," Harry said, his voice monotone and flat.

Albus flinched at this blatant disrespect. He was starting to fear that forcing Harry into the Tournament was a serious mistake. Harry had always been so respectful, but these days he all but radiated disrespect – or perhaps contempt was a better term.

"As you wish, Mr. Potter," the Headmaster sighed. "I need to know why you didn't attend your Herbology class today, and where you were."

"No you don't!" Harry countered. "You _want_ to know, but saying you need to makes it sound less nosy." Harry barely kept his face expressionless. "As for why, I've already told you I was working on the Egg, and as for where... Well, if nobody knows, nobody can disturb me, and I really like that. I've had it with stupid people making inane comments about goblets and dragons, and I'm pretty sure it won't be any easier getting a bit of peace now, with the Ball coming up and all..."

"Yes, the Ball..." the Headmaster pounced on the subject. "Your Head of House seems to believe that you're refusing to attend. You wouldn't know how this misconception came about, would you Mr. Potter?"

"It's no misconception, Headmaster. I have absolutely no interest in attending a social event that means nothing at all to me."

"Of course you'll attend, Mr. Potter. It is after all tradition that the Champions open the dance," the Headmaster's voice held a slight threat.

"The Champions, _Sir_, are Mlle. Delacour, Mr. Krum and Mr. Diggory," Harry sneered. "I was forced into the Tournament because a malicious old man somehow gets his kicks from forcing me to jump through hoops set up for his amusement. I never wanted anything to do with this farce; I am not going to attend the Ball, and I refuse to do detention for not participating in a non-compulsory extra-curricular activity. If you have a problem with that, expel me!"

Harry caught his breath. "Now that we've got that sorted, will that be all? I've arranged to get a set of notes and the homework assignment from Herbology, and I'd like to get them soon so I can get on with it."

"No Mr. Potter, we are not done. We have yet to reach a suitable conclusion to your attending the Ball, and I would very much like to know why you are suddenly acting so hostile." Dumbledore was getting frustrated. He still couldn't read anything at all from the boy, and he still hadn't met his eyes.

"We have already reached a suitable conclusion. _Sir..._ I will not be attending and that's that." Harry glared at the old man. "Am I 'acting hostile'? Well why would I do that? It's not like being forced into something life-threatening that I want nothing to do with, against several laws and scores of regulations, could have that effect, could it?" The sarcasm could be cut with a knife. "..And it's not like everybody and their uncles having your blessing to say and do anything they want about - and to - me, without any consequences whatsoever, while every teacher, head student and prefect in this ruddy castle comes down on me as soon as I even look like I'll stick a foot out of line, would encourage me to be anything less than positive, is it?" "...Sir!"

"Harry, I..."

"Mr. Potter!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name is Mr. Potter, Headmaster. I'm 'Harry' to my friends and to those I trust, and since you're the one who condemned me to ten years and three summers in Hell, as well as forced me – illegally – into that blasted tournament of yours, you don't belong in either category. _Sir._ Furthermore you don't call any other students by their given names, so why should I be any different?"

"My apologies, Mr. Potter." The Headmaster had a look of supreme disappointment on his face.

"Now, as you're set on holding on to your unfounded anger, I fear we will not be able to reach a suitable conclusion today. However I have to tell you that if you fail to attend the Ball, you will be docked 150 house points, and you will be banned from playing Quidditch for the remainder of your time here." The ancient wizard couldn't keep a smug look from creeping over his face.

"Good night Mr. Potter."

"You can take away enough points to keep Gryffindor in the negative for a decade, Headmaster. I couldn't care less. Your little ban will be appealed to the School Board as soon as it's issued though." Harry's voice was like steel. "Maybe it's time to remind you that you're not omnipotent." Harry turned to the door.

"Good night Headmaster. May your dreams be as pure as your conscience."

As the door closed behind Harry, Dumbledore slumped in his chair, his face showing all of his 113 years. He was losing Harry at an alarming rate, and this year that he'd had such high hopes for now looked like it was heading straight down the drain. Even worse was that he had absolutely no idea what to do about it, and with young Mr. Weasley out of Harry's small circle of friends, as well as Miss Granger being pushed towards the fringe of that same circle, his subtle Legilimency-probes on the two youngsters provided no useful information. He would have to attempt a scan on Harry himself, but his curious aversion to meeting his eyes indicated that he was aware of the risk of Legilimency being employed. How had he found out, and who'd taught him how to avoid it?

No, this wasn't a good year.

With a sigh the centenarian turned to his collection of more-or-less repaired tracking instruments, only to discover that Harry once again couldn't be found anywhere.

* * *

><p>AN2: No, if I ever write it, it will not be Harry/Susan.


	3. Here We Go Again

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his whole universe belongs to J. K. Rowling and her associates. I'm just having a good time playing with it all, and I - unlike the owner - don't make a penny from it.

A/N: Ch. 1 of my do-over, should I get the urge to write it. I have a gazillion ideas for this, but very few ideas on how to bend them into a readable format. Only time will tell if I ever find out how.

**Here We Go Again**

**Ch. 1**

**How it began**

There he sat, a glass of horribly expensive whisky in hand, pondering fate, life, future and other things of consequence. Okay, most would probably say he was brooding in true Harry Potter fashion, but he wasn't most so he could call it whatever he wanted. He was 26 years old, and thanks to a couple of inheritances he was well to-do. Well, he was actually fairly wealthy. He was single - regardless of Molly and Ginny Weasley's wishes to the contrary. Despite never actually completing the initial training - or even qualifying for it for that matter - he was an Auror Squad Leader, and bloody good at it too. Only... He hated it with a fiery passion! What the effing Hell possessed him to allow Shacklebolt to get him drunk enough to sign that bloody 20-year contract 8 years ago? What had happened to his life?

He had ended the Resurrection War at 18, and then it was like his life had ground to a halt. He'd served his purpose, although the Weasley women had tried to impress on him for eight years now that his life's new purpose was to marry Ginny and produce a gaggle of children. Not bloody likely!

He'd even known for seven years now that he'd never rise above his current level in the Auror Corps, or in any other Department for that matter. Minister Shacklebolt had informed him of that personally a week after he'd caused an uproar at the ridiculous 'First Annual Victory Day Ball', when - after being ordered to attend when he told the Minister that he didn't intend to go near it - he'd shown up in jeans and t-shirt and a Silversmith twin on each arm and adamantly refused to even touch the Order of Merlin (1st class), and made both Shacklebolt (who'd just called him 'my good, personal friend' in his long winded speech. Feh! If he was his friend, he would've known he didn't want their scrap metal) and the committee behind the idiocy look half as smart as bricks. If they really wanted to honour him, why couldn't they just do it by respecting his wishes and letting him live in peace? That would make him happy; it didn't take effort, and it was free too, unlike the bloody statue - that didn't even look like him - they'd erected 'in his honour' in the Alley. He'd blasted the hideous thing to rubble less than ten seconds after it'd been revealed, and he'd felt unspeakably good about it. The Fiscal Department still tried to make him pay for that pathetic piece of marble now, more than six years later. George Weasley had laughed his arse off, for the first time since Fred's death almost two years prior as far as he knew, but very few others had shown any understanding for Harry's feelings about the whole circus. In fact people had made such a good effort to drown him in Howlers, berating him for being immature and ungrateful, that he'd taken to such drastic measures as to erect a ward that fried post owls on contact unless they were keyed in, which only those from the Minister, the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, and Hermione's personal owl were.

Hermione... She'd been the only thing stopping him from just leaving everything behind in those crazy days, and in a way she still was, only now for a different reason. Back then she'd volunteered a lot of her time to just be there for him, lending an ear when he ranted about the sheep of the world. Eventually she'd decided that he needed to do something constructive with his spare time, and so she began to teach him Runes and Arithmancy. Much to her - and his - surprise he took to it like a duck to water, and for the next three years they'd met at least three times a week, partly for lessons and partly just to talk and enjoy their friendship.

Then she'd gone and married Ron Weasley and everything went down the crapper. She'd quit her job at Ron's insistence, despite it being the very job she'd dreamed about since finding out that she was a witch. A little while later he'd found out about their cosy afternoons together, and then all Hell broke loose. He wouldn't listen to anything, but demanded that they stopped seeing each other, and much to Harry's surprise Hermione complied. That was three years ago, and she hadn't spoken to him since. He still saw her in the Alley from time to time, but she never acknowledged him. Not in word, nor in gesture. It was like they'd never even met each other.

He still studied her though, and the more he saw, the more it became clear that something was wrong. He'd last seen her about a year ago in the Alley, and he'd been shocked. The Hermione he'd known for fifteen years kept herself fit and healthy. She was brash, confident, ever curious and fully aware of her own worth. The one he saw that day was not that Hermione. That one was gaunt, drawn and haggard, and didn't pay any attention to anything but the infant in her arms and to her boorish husband in front of her who loudly berated and belittled her all the way from the apparition point to the Leaky Cauldron, only to get a timid 'yes Ron' in return every now and again. This was not Hermione. This was not the woman he knew and - dared he say - loved. This one was a pale caricature. An empty shell with a superficial likeness, but the real Hermione had disappeared.

He'd rushed to investigate at the Department, only to find out - much to his disgust - that he couldn't do a thing. As long as they were legally married and Hermione filed no complaints, he could do nothing. He couldn't even investigate as long as she didn't show clear signs of abuse, and no matter how clear the signs were to him, there were no visible bruises or spell-damage, so he was in effect check mated.

To make it all even better, Minister Shacklebolt in own, self righteous person had informed him that he was to leave the Weasleys alone and not look into Hermione's transformation from woman to doormat again. No matter what might be the problem, her blood status contra her husband's made her off limits. Harry blew a gasket right there and then and laid into the Minister at full force, and in full view and/or hearing of the whole Auror Department, for just unthinkingly continuing the policies that brought Voldemort about and almost saw him winning. That little episode saw him suspended without pay until he publicly apologised, and Andromeda - his godson's grandmother - pressured and outright threatened into denying him rights to visit, or to be visited by, Teddy. Harry thought that twelve years of forced inactivity was a tad excessive, but better that than the alternative. He really didn't think there was any need to apologise for telling the truth.

Instead of apologising as Shacklebolt demanded, he'd gotten snarky. In an article to The Daily Prophet under the headline 'I'm sorry', he went on to apologise for ridding them of Voldemort; for saving the undeserving sheep that they were; for leaving corrupt incompetents in charge in the Ministry, and for raining on everybody's parade by having the audacity to come out of the whole thing alive despite both the Ministry's and the general public's best attempts to make sure he wouldn't. Then he'd tightened his wards to their maximum; shut down the Floo, and set to work on completing the theory of a _very_ interesting ritual he'd come across in a confiscated tome. One that he'd regrettably 'forgotten' to turn over to the Department after a raid.

It was a very special book indeed. It was the personal journal of the world's first - and so far also last - Grand Master of both Arithmancy, Ritual Magic and Runes, Filippos Nikolidis (1391-1534), and it contained everything the old Greek genius had ever worked on. Fortunately for Harry it was written in Latin, the universal language of Roman schooled Arithmancers. Near the very end of it Nikolidis had begun to describe a complicated ritual, but in 1530, when it was almost written out, he'd discontinued it with a remark about how unpredictable and insanely dangerous it would be to attempt it. The ritual and its purpose was never mentioned again in the four years he'd lived on from that point.

* * *

><p>He spent almost a year completing the theory for the ritual, helped immensely by the rest of the very complex descriptions of rituals in the book, as well as Kreacher's willingness to do anything, including 'borrowing' books from several public collections, for the man who completed the task that his Master Regulus had given him so many years back. Finally a couple of days ago he'd cracked the last nut, courtesy of the journal that Kreacher had 'liberated' from the Weasley household. Harry didn't believe Hermione would mind, or even miss it for that matter. She didn't much look like she had the time or the drive to start cracking runic puzzles these days.<p>

Now the whole setup was finished, and that was why he was pondering. Would he do it? _Could_ he do it? If yes, was it the right thing to do? With Hermione effectively dead to the world, and Neville having the time of his life, waist deep in strange and insanely dangerous plants somewhere in the Sumatran jungle for years to come, there was nothing left for him, but what would he meet if the ritual succeeded? More importantly... What would happen if it didn't?

In the end though, there really was only one option. He used his Animagus to get past the junior Aurors stalking around Grimmauld Place (a blackbird might not be the most impressive Animagus form out there, but it was dead useful) and went to Gringott's where he updated his Will, leaving everything - except a small fund dedicated to supporting Neville's research into medicinal and healing plants - to Teddy on the condition that he left the country upon reaching his majority and used a sizeable part of the fortune to work against pureblood bigotry in all its forms. Once done with that, he went back home and told Kreacher to keep up the new standards of the House, and to keep everything in order until the new Master would eventually come into his inheritance. A gentle reminder that Teddy actually had more Black blood in his veins than Harry had made it easy for Kreacher to accept the changes that were coming his way. No reason to tell anybody that if his plans actually worked out as he hoped, this reality would most likely cease to exist.

Exactly sixteen months after he'd seen the mindless automaton that his best friend had become, Harry sat in the centre of the heptagon he'd painstakingly made from Egyptian Hieroglyphs and Saxon Runes. He'd double and triple checked everything, and now the rest was up to Fate - and the genius that was Filippos Nikolidis. He gave a brief thought to the possible outcomes of what he was attempting. If it worked as Nikolidis said it would - and if he'd completed the missing bit of the theory correctly - he'd erase this timeline and end up some time in his past. When he'd come back to was a little hit-and-miss, but he couldn't go back any further than the date of his birth. If Nikolidis was wrong, there were two options: Either he would still go back to some time in his past, but this timeline would continue as it was, only without him in it, and he'd be in a 'mirror universe' for lack of a better term; or he would simply commit an elaborate suicide and nothing else would happen. With a last look around what he still thought of as his godfather's room, he decided to gamble on the old Greek. He cast a quick 'Incendio' on the journal and his notes, and then he held the Elder Wand to the control Rune and pushed all his magic into the spell that would energize it and start the reaction. His last conscious thought was of Hermione and how he would do everything to save her from the fate she'd met, and then his world dissolved into wave after wave of utter agony.

* * *

><p>A couple of days later an apathetic Hermione Weasley finished attending to her young daughter, and then sat down at the kitchen table to have whatever her husband had left her for breakfast. The discarded newspaper on the table stirred the starved reader in her enough for her to pick it up, and she unfolded it and settled down to enjoy a stolen moment.<p>

Scant seconds later the main headline started a process that would cause a stir in the magical society of Britain. The headline that finally managed to break her out of her compulsion-induced haze was the one that announced that the Boy-Who-Lived had been found dead in his home after the wards had come down, thus allowing the Aurors surveying his neighbourhood to enter the house. It was ruled a suicide, given that he was found sitting upright in the middle of a ritual heptagon that gave off residue of an immensely powerful spell of an unknown nature. According to sources in Gringott's, Mr. Potter's fortune was entailed for his godson, Teddy Lupin, except for a minor fund to support specific research into healing plants. The Goblins also let slip that there was a clause in it to deter less savoury types from trying to get to the inheritance through Teddy: Should he not reach his majority, the whole thing would be used to set up a retirement home for overworked House-elves, and both Families would be considered extinct.

Hermione spent the next hour crying over how wrong everything had turned out, and for how the bigoted laws of the society, she'd given her youth to, had allowed Ronald Weasley to basically tear away her mind and free will, forcing his bidding on her in every aspect. Hell, she couldn't see their scam of a marriage as anything but her being his convenient plaything and legal rape-victim. He'd used low intensity compulsions on her since the year after Voldemort's downfall, and after a few years of that she'd been so far gone that he'd even been able to forbid her from working and from seeing Harry, and the next thing she knew she was pregnant, unemployed, completely subservient and without a wand. She still was - except now the subservience was gone.

Knowing what she now did about the purebloods' stranglehold on Wizarding Britain - a society that a halfblood and a muggleborn had gone through Hell to save for them - she knew she had no way to legally leave her marriage, and without money or wand she'd be chased down in a matter of minutes if she just ran off, so she had to do something else.

Finally it came to her, and she spent the next hour or so planning for her escape from the hell she'd been in for years. After she'd fed her 'husband' - and used every scrap of willpower she possessed to conceal her revulsion - she excused herself to go and brew a couple of potions that she'd need 'for the new baby'. She might not have a wand, and she might be under Ron's scrutiny, but she'd earned an Outstanding on her Potions NEWT while Ronald Weasley wouldn't know vinegar from a pustule curative draught.

She was still working when Ron went to bed, and once she was certain he was asleep, the real work began. She'd been brewing three different potions this evening, and now she poured carefully measured amounts of them all into the biggest cauldron in the house until she had nearly two gallons of the mixture. Then she lit the fire under the cauldron; went and kissed her daughter and apologised for what she was about to do; and then she went and sat at the kitchen table, rereading the article as she waited.

Some time shortly after midnight while Hermione was still sitting quietly at the table, reminiscing the times when she still had her best friend, brother and rock, the volatile concoction in the cauldron reached its critical temperature.

* * *

><p>The papers - both Wizarding and Muggle - all wrote about the mysterious explosion that had rocked the small town of Chudley to its core. Its origin had been pinpointed - quite easily - to a spot about a mile outside of town, but what had caused it was unknown. The epicentre used to be a plot of land with a shabby cottage standing on it, owned by a Mr. Ronald Weasley, but the cottage had been demolished so thoroughly that nothing could be found of it, and therefore there was nothing left to test to find out which explosive had been used, and no clues to find as to how and why it had been set off, nor to who might have had enough of an axe to grind to blow up the young family.<p>

In the back room of his shop in Diagon Alley, George Weasley finished the article about his 'hero' brother's death in an unexplained explosion. He quietly rose from his chair and made his way to a cabinet from which he pulled a tumbler and a bottle of expensive whisky. After pouring himself a shot, he lifted the glass in a toasting motion. "Cheers, Hermione. Finally that miserable arsehole got what he had coming to him. Thank you, and I'm sorry I couldn't do anything to help you. May you be at peace wherever you've gone to."

* * *

><p>Pain! Pure, unending, unadulterated hurt was his first impression when he came to. Nikolidis had theorised in the journal that it could possibly be painful, but that was like saying that being hit with the killing curse could possibly be slightly dangerous. This made the Cruciatus curse feel like a minor inconvenience. Then his higher functions began to kick in, and the first thing that became clear was that something had gone wrong. He had aimed for the end of second year, just before Hermione - and the other victims of the Basilisk - was cured, and this wasn't it. This wasn't near the end of second year. It wasn't Hogwarts either. It wasn't even in his Hogwarts years, as evidenced by the noise of someone stomping down the stairs that made up the 'ceiling' of his cupboard. Only then did he realise, he'd been crying out in pain, and apparently loudly enough to set Vernon off.<p>

Frantically he tried to pinpoint the time. The deciding clue was the throbbing pain from an untreated broken arm, placing him just after his sixth birthday. This was bad! And as Vernon reached the bottom of the stairs, he realised that it was about to get even worse. Pinning everything on a fervent hope that Nikolidis had been right that he'd retained his control - if not his full level of power - he braced himself for the walrus-shaped lump of bad temper to begin the punishment for disturbing his night.

Sure enough... The cupboard door was flung open with a bang, and a meaty arm preceded a stream of profanities in the direction of his mattress. Next thing Harry found himself airborne, about to impact the wall opposite his cupboard with considerable force - and then the timeline went all out of whack. A burst of magic - and Harry would never be able to tell if it was accidental or not - cushioned him when he hit the wall, and another saw Vernon Dursley sailing through the kitchen, impacting the cooker and continuing through the thin partition wall behind it while cradling the appliance. That had definitely not happened twenty years ago!

Harry winced when the sound of Vernon and the cooker crashing into the brick wall in the sitting room reached him, and then time seemed to slow down. In a daze he got to his feet, and then he began to trace a Runeset on the staircase to set up a contained Earthquake Wave, unconsciously working to get it done before Petunia could react to the ruckus and come downstairs. He could already hear the screeching of the horse-faced Banshee draw closer, indicating that it was still fairly early in the night since she apparently hadn't been asleep, when he had an idea. He had ten years and six summers of slavery and near-starvation, as well as now two broken arms and other assorted bruises to 'thank' these twisted animals for, and given the amount of pain he'd just endured, he felt entitled to watch the show to the end.

He traced the control Rune for the Wave, and then he retreated to the darkest corner of the living room where he'd have a prime view of what would happen next. He was just in the nick of time, as Petunia almost came flying down the stairs with murder in her eyes, looking for what dared to interrupt her precious Duddikins' sleep. Harry had a hard time keeping his laughter in when she stopped like she'd hit an invisible wall, and then her jaw dropped. Her spotless home was in shambles! The kitchen was destroyed; the partition wall all but obliterated, and her husband lay under the cooker at the far wall of the living room. It all boiled down to only one possible explanation in Petunia Dursley's mind.

"FREAK! What have you done? If I get a hold of you, I swear I'll make you regret you were ever born!"

"Boo!" Harry whispered from his hiding spot. Then he placed his thumb on the remote command Rune he'd traced on the wall beside him and concentrated fiercely on triggering the control Rune on the staircase, and all Hell broke loose.

A groaning sound filled the house at it began to sway. Moments later pipes and fittings began to snap, and boards and bricks came loose while tiles began to drop from the roof. Then something unexpected happened, and Harry's hastily concocted plan was shot to Hell. He crumbled and hit the floor in agony as the wards cascaded and failed, the backlash hitting him like a ton of bricks and his magic and consciousness draining by the second. Apparently Dumbledore had tied them even closer to him than he'd believed, and now he was paying for yet another crime committed in the name of the old goat's 'Greater Good'.

Harry's hastily improvised scheme had called for watching as the Dursleys' 'perfectly normal' life went down the sewer, and then apparate to St. Mungo's Hospital, counting on the place being public enough to deter Dumbledore from just swooping in and erasing people's memories left, right and centre. Now he was down to the bare basics of survival, and his remaining magic reacted to get him away from the danger. Harry only had the word 'safety' in mind, and with that at the forefront he felt the uncomfortable sensation of being squeezed through a garden hose until he hit a carpeted floor in an unknown location. Dazed and hurting, he heard a high-pitched voice call "MUM!" as he keeled over.

'Well... Shit!' he thought, and then the world around him went black.

* * *

><p>At the same time, in a castle in the most remote part of the Scottish Highlands, Albus Dumbledore's evening was rapidly charging up the list of the ten worst evenings in his long life. He'd been roused from his early slumber by the alarm that signified that Harry was in even greater distress than normal for the boy, and as soon as he entered his office to deal with the pesky contraption, all his other monitoring devices had gone off, one after the other, until a veritable cacophony of screeching noises threatened to take his hearing away. The total sum of what the noisy gadgets told him made his mind lock up and his blood run cold. He was faced with a complete ward failure, along with an as yet unknown magic used with hostile intent at Harry Potter's address. The ward failure was actually worse than the hostile magic right now, since he'd tied the wards very tightly to the boy's magic, and as he'd been in great distress already before they went down, the backlash could easily kill the lad. Nothing with enough power to do that should ever be able to come close enough to even try to bring them down. He'd layered them that way, but the evidence was right in front of him.<p>

Then one of the few silent devices coughed a few times and stopped spinning, and his evening got even worse. That particular gizmo tracked Harry's physical whereabouts, and for it to stop working meant one of two things: Either the boy was dead, or the self-supporting tracking charm it connected to had been dispelled, which would require either someone more powerful than him, or Harry's magic drained to the last erg. Either possibility was bad news for the old Headmaster. No matter what was responsible for it, he no longer had any means of tracking Harry. This was a complete and unmitigated disaster! As the magnitude of the event crept into his mind, it finally dawned on him that it would be prudent to remove himself to Little Whinging to assess the damage in person.

* * *

><p>He arrived at Privet Drive in the middle of complete chaos. The house resembled a war zone: Floors and ceilings had gaping holes in them; windows were cracked or blown out; pipes stuck out of the walls; tiles littered the garden, and in the middle of what had been a living room stood a catatonic Petunia Dursley, dumbly staring at her husband who was cuddled up with a kitchen appliance below a serious dent in the outer wall. He couldn't believe his eyes. Every plan, every hope and every scheme he had for the future had been destroyed, and no matter what happened now, no matter if the boy was dead or alive, the wards around this place couldn't be rebuilt, and all his plans for the lad's upbringing, which revolved around the less than savoury setup he'd made here, would have to be rethought and rebuilt. No, this day was second only to the day his sister died in terms of ranking on his list of catastrophes in his life, and depending on who had the boy now - provided he was still alive - it could still go no. 1.<p>

A quick scan revealed residue of an unfamiliar - at least to him - Runic sequence on the remains of the staircase, proving to him that the wards had somehow failed and let in someone with intent to kidnap and/or harm the boy. He would have to investigate how that could have happened, but first he had to start searching for the lad. It wouldn't do for him to be in the hands of Death Eaters, nor would it do anybody any good to have him with someone who'd let him learn about who and what he was. Either possibility would mean the death of the pitiful, ragged remains of his clever schemes to bring down Tom Riddle for good.

Suddenly a screech from the horse-faced woman startled him out of his musings.

"You promised!" Petunia screamed. "You wrote in that bloody letter that if we took the brat in, you guaranteed it would keep us safe from anything. What do you call this?" He recoiled at the force and anger in her assault.

"I assure you Petunia... If you hadn't taken in young Harry, this would have killed you all. Only the protection brought about by taking him in saved you this night." He surreptitiously shot a calming charm and a compulsion for trust and truth her way. "Now please, what happened here before I came, and where is Harry?"

"I don't know where that miserable brat is. I'm just glad he's not here. I don't know what happened either. Vernon went downstairs to put the freak in his place, and the next minute it sounded like there was a war going on down here. When I came down, Vernon was like that," she pointed shakily at the peculiar sight below the dent in the wall, "...and the freak was nowhere to be seen. Then everything began shaking, and a minute later it looked like this."

Dumbledore's legilimency had been working full force while Petunia spoke, and he didn't detect any lies from her. What he did pick up was the reality of being Harry Potter around these people. It seemed they were quite a bit harsher on the lad than he'd believed they would be, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The more pliant and desperate for acceptance and friendship the boy was, the easier it would be to implement the later phases of his plan. Of course it now all depended on finding the lad and returning him here with whatever ward-scheme it would be possible to cook up.

* * *

><p>AN2: Who is the owner of the high-pitched voice? I'm operating with 5 ideas for that: Marietta Edgecombe, Sally-Anne Perks, Tracey Davis, Victoria Frobisher – who I have as a year older than Harry, or Demelza Robins – who I picture a year younger than Harry.


	4. Untitled - challenge

Untitled - challenge

I found this along with 3 horribly bad other snippets for the same story a few days ago. The others were kicked out, but I thought that this might have some kind of potential.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his whole universe belongs to J. K. Rowling and her associates. I'm just having a good time playing with it all, and I - unlike the owner - don't make a penny from it.

* * *

><p>Ollivander looked at Harry expectantly.<p>

"Yes?" Harry asked somewhat distractedly, occupied as he was trying to decipher the strange swirls of active magic surrounding the Beauxbatons champion.

"I need to check your wand, Mr. Potter," the old wandsmith reminded him.

"Whatever for?" Harry looked even more puzzled than before. He dimly recalled someone mentioning something about wands to him when he came to this room, but since it wasn't really interesting he didn't believe anybody could expect him to remember... Whatever it was. His train of thought stopped there and he turned his attention back to the intriguing patterns surrounding the young French witch.

Ollivander held out his hand. "Your wand please, Mr. Potter," he coaxed. He'd been warned about Mr. Potter's peculiar behaviour in advance, but the boy seemed to have an attention-span less than that of the average toddler. How these people expected him to survive whatever tasks they'd dreamed up for the tournament he couldn't fathom.

Seeing Ollivander's outstretched hand, Harry forcibly dragged himself back to reality. "My wand?" He was at a loss about how to get out of this one. Somehow he didn't think his apple-wood stick would be enough this time. "Oh, yeah, the crutch..." he murmured. "I think I've got it in here somewhere," he hedged as he opened his robe and began searching his inside pockets – and at the same time trying to come up with an idea.

Several people looked at each other in astonishment. Disregarding the 'crutch' comment for now, the boy didn't know where his wand was! To everybody in the room – apart from Harry obviously – the wand was what defined them, and to not know where it was would be unthinkable.

A minute of searching later he lit up. "There it is!" he exclaimed, and if anyone in the room had been capable of seeing active magic they would've noted a small flash from the pocket his hand was currently in.

"Here you go." He passed a plain looking wand to the old man and promptly went back to his mental mapping of Fleur's allure.

Ollivander peered at the wand with a sceptical look. He was still annoyed that young Potter hadn't come to him for his wand, and to this day nobody had been able to tell him where he'd bought it. Looking closer at it he could see several wandcrafters' styles there, including his own, but for once he was incapable of telling where it originated. Strange. He knew every wandmaker's products on sight, but he couldn't even guess at this. Something to ponder later.

"Apple and … Oh my!" The old man swallowed harshly, not quite believing what his senses and magic told him. "A-apple and vampire fang!" A round of gasps were heard in the background.

"Is that bad?" Harry inquired in a curious voice.

"Erm... No, not as such, but it's very unusual," Ollivander replied. I would guess it's even more temperamental than Mlle. Delacour's." He flicked it once and a thick jet of red wine shot out of it, flattening a chair that happened to be in the way before making a mess up the far wall. Jaws dropped throughout the room.

"Ye-yes..." Ollivander stammered. "Definitely temperamental!" He called on all his experience to reach a semblance of calm. "It's in perfect working order Mr. Potter, but I implore you to never let anyone else handle it. Here you are." He handed Harry the wand back.

"Thank you," Harry took it and looked at the Headmaster. "Are we done yet?"

"Yes we are, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore sighed, once again thrown by the enigma wrapped in a puzzle and disguised as a riddle shrouded in mystery that was the last Potter. Every time he thought he had finally gotten a clue about the linchpin of all his plans, young Potter would do something entirely new and he'd be back to square one.

"Brilliant!" said mystery exclaimed, and the wand in his hand promptly turned into a wallet which he then proceeded to place in the pocket he'd pulled the wand from.

Another round of dropped jaws occurred, this time accompanied by whispered expletives and cries of disbelief.

"Erm... Oops?" Harry's shoulders sagged and his head dropped when it dawned on him what he'd done.

"Did you... Did you just transfigure your wand into a wallet?" Ollivander couldn't believe what he'd just seen.

"Erm... No, not exactly..." Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable and Fleur was wondering why. After all he'd just achieved the impossible and should be bragging and crowing if her knowledge of human nature was something to go by, but he looked anything but proud of his achievement, and it wasn't just modesty either. In fact he seemed annoyed with himself and Fleur just got herself a new quest. Harry Potter was elevated from 'leetle boy' to 'most important task' instantly, something that would likely take most of her time and effort over the next few months – and incidentally something that just might make her stay in this godforsaken place worthwhile. He had already been slowly creeping up her meter due to his ability – which he didn't even seem to be aware of himself – to completely ignore her allure, and now this unbelievable feat which he didn't seem impressed with himself. Yes, Harry Potter just found himself at the top of Fleur Delacour's list of mysteries to solve.

"I ended the transformation of my wallet actually," he murmured, prompting yet another round of astonishment. This time however Ollivander actually passed out.

A quick spell later and the old wand-maker was – mostly – at an even keel again, although still reeling from what had just happened.

"Am I to understand that you just transfigured a working wand? Wandlessly no less?"

"I had to give you a wand, didn't I?"

"Mr. Potter," came Dumbledore's voice from the other side, "why didn't you just give Mr. Ollivander the wand you use in class?"

By way of answer Harry dug into another pocket and passed Ollivander a wand that looked just like the one from before.

"Ollivander looked intently at the wand, and then just as intently at Harry. "This isn't a wand, Mr. Potter. It's a stick!"

"I know," came Harry's reply. "I made it myself after all."

"Why do you even carry this?"

"Because I need it for classes."

"…"

"…"

"Does this tie into your comment about a crutch? And if it does, then how?" Ollivander asked, demonstrating more mental acumen than Harry had met in a wizard in a long while.

"If you have a bad leg," Harry began, "...a leg that you can actually use but not well enough to let you stand or walk, you use a crutch to make up the difference. It's the same with magic, you know."

Blank stares greeted this statement and Harry sighed.

"If you're magical but not quite to the point where you can freely use it, you can – for lack of a better explanation – 'shape' magic through a wand using a formalised spell which is in essence 'pre-shaped' bits of magic that just need assembling. It places some rather narrow restrictions on the user, but I guess the original thought was better a little magic use than no use at all."

Pandemonium broke out.

"Are you saying that Professor Dumbledore is not powerful enough?" Cedric Diggory asked in disbelief. "He's the strongest wizard in the world!"

"No I'm not and no he's not," Harry replied. "He's certainly a powerful wizard, but there are a few stronger than him. As for 'powerful enough'... He's got more than I have and I'm using magic freely, so of course he's powerful enough."

"But you just said that those who use wands are those who don't have enough power," came from Ollivander – who looked not happy at all at the perceived slight to his trade.

"No I didn't," Harry denied. "I said that those are the ones wands were meant for, but that was a long time ago. Given that use of free magic actually require independent thought and use of wands just requires memorising what somebody else already did, wizard laziness did the rest." He thought for a moment. "I'm sure that the fact that use of free magic can't be traced has nothing to do with every Ministry in the world encouraging the belief that wands are necessary of course..."

"No!" the Durmstrang Headmaster exclaimed firmly. "The child is having us on, just like his ridiculous claim that he didn't enter the Tournament. Magic requires a wand, period!"

Harry shook his head. "You truly are an idiot, aren't you?" he said softly. "You have just seen free magic being used and yet you still deny it. You apparate without using your wand, don't you?"

"Show Headmaster Karkaroff the respect he deserves, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore admonished sternly as Karkaroff slowly turned a very unhealthy colour.

"I am," Harry countered. "Now, for those as set in their views as the idiot there," he pointed at Karkaroff, "let me try this way: Imagine 20.000 years ago. Billy the Caveman – who just happens to be magical - has had a bit of luck today and killed himself a deer, and now he's working to bring it home. It's pretty smooth going until he reaches the foothills not far from the cave, and then his progress stops. Do you expect him to go like this: 'Right, there's a tree over there with bowtruckles in it. If I get myself a branch from that I can split it and place this unicorn hair I just happen to have inside it. Then I can inscribe a few runes – which will be invented in about 18.000 years – inside the branch as well, and then all that's left is fusing the halves together again – with a glue that'll be invented in 16.000 years – and polishing it. After that it's just a matter of waving it and saying _locomotor deer_ (of course Latin is still a good 17.000 years away) and then I can float the deer the rest of the way home'."

Exclamations were heard from the listeners, mainly about why they'd never thought of that themselves.

Harry smirked at his audience and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Or would you expect him to simply use his magic and make the carcass move like this?" He looked at Fleur with an impudent grin, then reached out and let his magic connect to the free, ambient magic in the area and lifted her off her feet; floated her in a circle and then to the nearest wall where he tilted her slightly a few times before gently putting her down again and leaving the room, without even being conscious about the fidelius-like enchantment he laid over those still there that prohibited them from discussing what had transpired with anyone who didn't already know.

Harry was once again lost in a world of his own as he made his way to his dorm. Having his magic directly interact with Fleur had almost overloaded his mind with information about the magic that surrounded her; what its purpose was; how it was projected; how it was made up and – probably important since he got the feeling that Fleur didn't know herself – how to neutralise it. It seemed that a bit of thinking and then a meeting with the French witch was in his immediate future.

Now Fleur on the other hand was in a bit of a bind. Not literally of course, although she might actually have preferred that. No, she was working hard to keep her knees from buckling under her, and at the same time she was panting and her insides were quivering. Contrary to what the others in the room believed, the magic in Harry's little demonstration had not had her by the hips or waist in a two-point grip. Definitely not! Harry's magic had cocooned her in a soft blanket that had held her all over. It had felt warm, powerful, protective and... Curious? And moreover, 'all over' really meant _all over_! As in Every. Single. Inch. of her body, and those feelings in certain areas and on specific, highly sensitive parts had had her within inches of climaxing very hard and exceedingly loudly right there. A few more seconds and she would have been powerless to stop it. Strangely enough Harry had acted like he didn't know how it affected her, so maybe he really didn't.

She was quickly coming to the conclusion that even those who should know him didn't really have a clue about him at all, and that no matter how it looked on the surface, Harry was anything but a normal young lad, but all else aside he was still a 14 year-old boy, and honestly what did one of those know about how a young woman would react to anything? Normal or not Harry Potter was a titillating mystery, and he could do things that she was certain that nobody else could, apparently including making a sexual creature cream herself from several yards away. He had already shot up her 'find out more'-list, but now he was the only item on her 'to do'-list. Oh yes, Fleur Delacour was going to find out what the secret was to his use of magic, and then she was going to do Harry Potter come hell or high water!

* * *

><p>Right... The above is 'the weighing of the wands' in one of those stories I'll never get around to write but would dearly like to see done. The plot is that Harry discovers his magic at a very early age – say around 4 – during some kind of punishment at Privet Drive. He wishes for some kind of retaliation against Vernon and magic delivers. Harshly! Since that day the Dursleys are terrified of him, and he is treated decently – if not kindly – after that, allowing him to grow as he should both physically and intellectually.<p>

Due to his drive to explore, understand and experiment with this new power of his, he's perhaps even more clueless and socially retarded than in canon, but on the other hand he's been developing his intellect much further than he otherwise would; in part because he isn't punished for doing well in school and in part because he utilises all he has in any way he can in order to delve deeper into this strange power.

Once he gets to Hogwarts it's instantly clear to him that his use of magic is contrary to every belief about it (something he suspected already when the list of requirements in his Hogwarts letter included a wand, thus the apple-wood stick), and he does what he can to hide what he's doing – or more precisely how he's doing it. Unfortunately though, during his first flying lesson a girl falls off her broom and Harry - still suffering from saviour-syndrome – catches her magically. The girl experiences what Fleur did in the above (including the climax that Fleur didn't quite reach. Luckily she's not a screamer) and tells her best friend – who tells another friend who tells..., and after that a still clueless Harry has one of the resident bookworms (Granger, Patil, Turpin, Clearwater, Davis, Perks, Edgecombe or others) request that he lift her 'to reach a book on the top shelf' at least once a day (I keep getting a mental picture of a 13-year old Ms. Granger dropping whimpering and shivering to the library floor, curled around a 1200-page tome detailing the fees that each magical family in Britain paid in tuition to Hogwarts from 1150 to 1725 as soon as Harry turns his back after setting her down), and others need lifting in order to 'check a detail' at the very top of a painting or whatever else they can think of that'll require elevation, not to mention 7th year student N. Tonks in need of catching on a regular basis throughout his first year when she stumbles over stray atoms.

I picture Harry as a Hufflepuff in this one (hard work being a 'puff trait, and he's working really hard on deepening his understanding of magic) but he could probably be in any House, and while generally well liked and on friendly terms with most in his year and those just above and below he has no close friends seeing that he's almost never around, preferring to work alone on his own project.

Speaking of project, once Fleur throws herself into 'project do Harry', the resident young witches mobilise and she's told in no uncertain terms to never ever let him know what his 'magical grip' has in terms of side-effects, believing (probably correctly) that Harry's Lifting-service would cease operations as soon as his blush faded enough to allow blood to the brain again.

I don't picture him being on the quidditch-team in this one, given that he caught a girl rather than Neville's remembrall, and while he's still a fine flier, his main interest I brooms is trying to figure out how free magic could be used to make something similar or better.

Some might have noticed that he doesn't use any kind of honorifics in the scene above. I'm not quite sure why I wrote it that way, but I think it fits the distracted scholar quite well.

Basically it's mostly crack, but I still believe there would be plenty of room to actually put a real plot in there somewhere, and I would so love to see it done. Therefore the challenge is: Decide how Harry goes about the challenges and disasters at Hogwarts and write it! The harder challenge: Write it within the parameters for a K+ rating.

Please?


End file.
